


In This Lifetime

by kayura_sanada



Series: For Good [17]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Continuation of the Sub-Plot, Heartbreak, M/M, Mage hate, Pining, Side Romance: Isabela/Merrill, Spirit Mage Hawke, scapegoating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 06:16:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11434893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayura_sanada/pseuds/kayura_sanada
Summary: A templar turns up dead, killed like the others. Isabela and Merrill become scapegoats for the murders.





	In This Lifetime

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to “As Real As You And Me” by Rihanna for the first part of this. If you want to be as depressed as me during this, feel free to have a listen.

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze stuck on the letter opened in the middle of his desk. The words made perfect sense. They formed full sentences, were grammatically correct. Nothing was misspelled. Yet he had no idea why they’d been arranged that way, placed on a piece of parchment, folded up, and sent to him. If it hadn’t been such a ridiculous sentiment, he would have considered it some sort of threat. Or warning? About what? Bringing his friends over? Sleeping with Fenris?

The more he thought about it, the more uneasy he became. Who exactly was so concerned with him that they would follow the comings and goings of those entering his home? Who cared what others might think of Fenris’ extended stay last night? Not, a tiny, bitter part of him thought, that it mattered; anything that might have been had died before truly having the chance to be born. Still, someone was watching, almost studying. He stilled at the sudden realization that, if someone knew enough of him and his friends to note when Fenris came and left, they could very well know about his magic.

He took a careful intake of breath. If this person did know, was this a more platonic warning for him to hide it? Or a demand that he start conforming to this person’s ideals? Or perhaps he was looking more into this than he should, and a neighbor had chosen to complain about his choice in companions?

Without more information, he couldn’t be certain. He got up and went to his bedroom door. For a moment, he considered not opening it, not heading out yet into the world. He still felt wounded, as if small lacerations still dotted his skin. His body still felt Fenris’ on it, over it. Inside it. When he walked, twinges slid up and down his body from his rectum, his ass remembering the stretch it had performed last night. He still tingled with the aftershocks of Fenris’ touch, heat, smell. He already missed the man with an ache so deep it left him hollow.

This pain would not heal with isolation. Acting the recluse would only give the wounds time to fester, to become infected with the poisons of bitterness and regret. He needed to move forward. At least this gave him something with which to occupy his mind.

He grabbed the envelope and made his way through the house, even as his mother gave him the exasperated look of one who had tried futilely to get him to rest. He gave her a quick grin and made his way to Bodahn. The dwarf was speaking with his son, the both of them looking over a rune. Sandal must have been tinkering again. “Bodahn.”

“Oh! It’s good to see you again, sir. The mistress was saying you felt a bit ill. We didn’t think to see you for the rest of the day.”

He shrugged. “She’s not wrong,” he said, careful to state nothing in particular. He didn’t wish to share his business with Fenris with others. His mother and Faith had helped him enough. “I just came down to ask you about this.” He showed the man the envelope. It was plain, empty of any address for sender or receiver. Bodahn took one look at it and made a noise of recognition.

“Oh, that thing! Came from a young Darktown boy, it did. I figured it was yet another person looking for your help.” He paused for a moment. “Did they not leave you their information? I could search for the boy, if you’d like.”

“No, thank you. He likely wouldn’t know any more than you.” Any more information would mean trying to hunt down the messenger, and Bodahn likely hadn’t looked too closely at the boy’s features. For now, it was a dead end.

“Trouble?” his mother asked, coming to stand with them.

He looked at her. Her hands kept rising, then falling, as if she wanted to reach out for him, but didn’t know if it would help or hinder. He caught them in his and kissed the backs of her fingers. She smiled. “I don’t know. The person didn’t leave any way for me to get in contact with them.” He didn’t want to tell her of his fears, especially while they might be unfounded. His mother had always worried about his magic, even before she’d lost Bethany and Carver. There was no need yet to give her more reason to worry.

“Is there any way to find them?” she asked. Likely thinking the same as Bodahn, then.

He shook his head. “Unfortunately not. I doubt Bodahn can even say with reasonable certainty what the boy’s hair color was?” He looked at the dwarf with a smile. “You likely didn’t even think to really look. No one does. We often meet one another without paying attention.”

Bodahn looked a bit chastened despite Hawke’s attempt to gloss over it. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He stepped back from his mother, something in his gut twisting. He couldn’t help but wonder if whoever had sent the boy had been deliberately trying to keep his identity hidden. If only he could know the writer’s intentions.

One thing was certain, however. No normal neighbor in Hightown would find a child from Darktown to deliver their message. This was no simple complaint.

* * *

He completed his work, going through reports from the mine and news from Anders and Varric. A few of his mother’s investments were checking in, as well, along with a couple of his own, specifically those he’d made to help squirrel mages away from Kirkwall. The one good thing about the mess with Fenris was the discovery of the slaver caves. With them cleared out, they could be used to help hide the mages until they reached a safer haven than the Gallows. He kept himself busy notifying his allies of the new placement options. He wrote letters to the mine, to Ashra, the mage resistance leader he worked with, and to his mother’s fiscal supporters.

It was all an attempt to prolong the inevitable, and finally he sighed, leaned back and stared at the work he’d accomplished. He’d let the whole day go by, simply to put off what he knew he needed to do.

Fenris had left him. They could not continue as they’d been. It simply wasn’t feasible. No more dancing around one another, no more awkward attempts at flirting. No more sexual tension. Or, barring that, no more knowledge that there was any hope of releasing said tension.

But even if what could have been was lost forever, he didn’t want to lose his friendship with the man. And he didn’t want Fenris to think he would be alone, or that he didn’t deserve happiness. If things couldn’t work out for them, then he would find another way for Fenris to be happy. But in order to do that, he needed to be allowed to stay by Fenris’ side.

He was a coward. He didn’t want to face another dismissal. He didn’t want to look Fenris in the eye if the man was going to tell him they couldn’t be around one another at all anymore.

A clean piece of parchment sat on his desk. His quill and inkwell sat ready for use. All he had to do was write a letter – Fenris was now perfectly capable of reading, so long as the words used were fairly simple and the sentences relatively short. He could write a letter, tell Fenris how he felt. If nothing else, he needed to speak. Before things got worse between them. Before it was too late to undo the rift forming.

He took a deep breath.

Something slammed down in the foyer below.

“Hawke!” He heard Merrill’s voice and stiffened. “Hawke, please say you’re here! I don’t know where else to go!”

He stood, barely remembering to cap his inkwell before racing to the door and opening it. He hurried to the banister and looked down. Bodahn and Sandal stood to the side, the older merchant hovering protectively in front of his son. His mother had turned from the door leading to the kitchens. Merrill, on the other hand, ran into the middle of the room and looked up at him. “Isabela’s been arrested. They’re saying she’s the one who’s been killing the templars’ friends. With my help.”

Arrested? Azzan hurried down the steps. His mother hovered on the edge of the room. He waved her on. She’d clearly been about to check on Orana; the young elf had made their meals all day, likely being taught how they liked their food by his mother, a woman who had made food delicious while they’d been traveling from one town to another in his childhood, even with minimal supplies. She should check on the woman. Azzan would take care of his friend. “Slow down, Merrill. What are you talking about?”

She wrung her hands. Her eyes, usually so large on her face, seemed to almost swallow her cheeks whole. Her elven markings seemed even paler in comparison. “Isabela! She’s been arrested. You know, for that murder we found in Lowtown? They’re even trying to say she killed the family next to yours. And they’re saying I helped her. The only reason I got away is because Isabela distracted them.”

“Them who?” he asked. He thought about changing his clothes, but he didn’t have the time. Instead he called his staff to him, daring to use his magic without the staff to focus it. With Faith’s help, his magic didn’t go astray. “Where is she?”

Merrill hopped next to him as he strode to the door, struggling to keep up with his pace. “The guards. They just showed up at my house. What if they call the templars? I don’t have anywhere to go. I’ll be locked up.”

“I won’t let that happen,” he said. The two of them may not see eye to eye on much of anything, but he wouldn’t want her taken to the Gallows. He wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy. Isabela wouldn’t have to face that, at least, but he couldn’t imagine she would do well locked up.

What was Aveline thinking? No matter how much she and Isabela fought, there should be no reason to go after the woman. The only information they had was that someone non-magical had a demon on their side and was strangling and stabbing people. That could be anyone. Isabela and Merrill hardly even fit the category.

They hurried out the door. He would have to miss supper. His mother would understand.

* * *

The Keep was oddly empty as they made their way to the garrison, Merrill sticking so close to Hawke’s side she bumped in to him every five steps. With most nobles making their way home for their evening meal or trying to suck up to the viscount during his own supper, the halls were deserted enough for them to garner nearly every gaze in the room. He hurried Merrill through, placing his hand on her tiny back and leading her forward. The stares made him bristle; they were looked at like they had come in tracking grime and muck.

Aveline’s door was open, for once, and he hurried down to it. The guards moving through the halls stopped and stared at them. One moved for his weapon. Azzan glared at him. Merrill tensed, clearly wanting to grip her staff, even knowing exactly how the act would be interpreted. He moved his hand from her back to her shoulder, pulling her closer. “Aveline,” he called, his voice tight. He didn’t come here to fight, but he would to ensure they could leave.

A shuffling sound, then, “Hawke. I expected you’d show.”

He hurried forward, rushing Merrill into the room first. He didn’t know if he trusted Aveline to not attack the girl on sight, but it would be easier to defend her from just Aveline than from the whole guard. And Merrill was little more than a wisp; she might have a slim chance of fitting through the tiny windows.

He opened his mouth the moment he was inside, even before pulling the door closed. At the sight of the woman, however, he stopped. For once, her hair was out of its horsetail, so tangled and upswept that it was clear she’d been here for hours. He saw the hairtie on the floor; she’d likely run her hand through her hair one too many times and never cared to even notice. She glared down at the papers on her desk – papers she looked at from the correct end, where she was supposed to be sitting. He stepped forward. “What’s happening?”

“Before you start accusing me of anything, this is out of my hands, Hawke.” Her fingers curled into fists on the table as she looked up. “Bran decided this, the fool. He heard about Isabela through the men at the tavern. Drunk as hell, but they caught her and Merrill together.” Her gaze slid to the tiny slip of an elf. “Cozy, they called it. They heard the two of you talking about magic – about demons.” Merrill grimaced. So she knew which conversation Aveline referenced. The guard captain’s lips pursed. He wanted to curse. “I’ve barely been able to keep Bran from calling in the templars. I’ve told him talking about magic and demons isn’t synonymous with _having_ magic. But you’re Dalish. The people here have...”

“Superstitions,” Azzan said, both furious and terrified. Merrill was nearly trembling beside him. “They think all Dalish are hiding ancient magic.”

“That’s r-ridiculous,” Merrill said. “Every clan only has two, maybe three mages. And our job is to pr-preserve the old ways.”

“It’s those ‘old ways’ they fear,” Aveline said, standing straight. “The magics you Dalish know are magics we don’t. And you use them without any supervision–”

“That’s not the point,” Azzan said, trying to keep his anger from bubbling up. Aveline talking about magic was not what he needed right then. “Do they actually have anything with which to hold her?”

Aveline nearly clapped her mouth shut, eyeing Azzan like he might jump her. It just made him grit his teeth harder. “Right. Yes. She knew the latest victim. Got into a big fight with him at the tavern. The same day she was heard talking about magic and demons,” she said, sending another accusatory look Merrill’s way. Which wasn’t fair; this was Kirkwall. _Everyone_ talked about magic.

“Wait. Latest victim?” he asked, but was cut off by Merrill jerking in place beside him.

“Oh!” Merrill said, her exclamation little more than a gasp. She turned to Hawke, unwittingly cutting Aveline out of the conversation. “Someone hit on me. He didn’t look like a templar. He looked – well, drunk. He touched my – my shoulder, but his fingers reached down for my, uh...” Merrill blushed. Her gaze dropped. She covered her chest as if thinking about it. Remembering it. He lightly bumped her shoulder. She gave him a wobbly smile. “She pulled him off me. Twisted his hand back until he was on his knees.” A smile flitted about her lips. Something shone in her eyes. He stared at it, amazed he hadn’t caught it before. “She told him to hurry home to his wife. I… I think it might have been a threat? But she just waved it off, said he was the type who never dug himself out of the trash.”

“Great.” Aveline rubbed her head. “If this is Knight Templar Addison you’re talking about, then he’s a well-respected member of the templar order. His wife loved him, as did his men. He worked closely with both Knight Commander Meredith and her second in command.”

Wonderful. Someone powerful. “A disagreement, in the Hanged Man, no less, is no reason to arrest someone. They’ll have to let her go eventually.”

“If she wasn’t a thief, perhaps that would be so.” Aveline ran a hand through her hair. “And since she fought the men arresting her, they can hold her on those charges while they accumulate evidence of her _other_ crimes.”

“But that was just to protect me!” Merrill said.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have run off, then.”

“And what?” Azzan said, cutting in before Aveline could say more. “She would get taken to the templars? Forced into the Circle? She has a demon inside her, Aveline. She would be killed in less than a day.”

Aveline opened her mouth as if to respond, then froze. She closed her mouth and said nothing.

_Good_.

“Get your men to actually look into this for once. And tell me where this templar lived.” He pulled Merrill to him as he made to leave. “I’ll look into this matter myself.”

“Hawke,” Aveline tried, “if you keep sticking your nose into this, it won’t be long until they turn their attentions to you.”

He lifted his chin, even as his stomach flipped. “Let them try.”

* * *

He took Merrill to his estate, where he left her under the care of his mother and Orana, who seemed thrilled to meet another female elf. He’d feared they’d spend their time arguing over the roles of elves in the world, had feared Merrill would drag on about the superiority of her people while Orana detailed an elf’s role under the thumb of their master. Instead, the two awkward ladies started going on immediately about make-up and dogs and the smells of the alienage. He even heard them start comparing the stenches of weeds and dirt before they hurried together to Orana’s room. He had a feeling they would be up all night talking about the most inane things a person could possibly think of.

His mother kept sending him looks, ones that ranged anywhere from disbelieving to accusatory to sad. He finally went to her, ignoring the chittering of the two little birds squirreled away in their corner of the house. “Mother.”

“You’re already dealing with enough,” she said, hardly letting him get a word in before starting. She reached out and grabbed his hands, just as he had hers earlier that same day. “You’re hurting. And what’s this I hear about someone targeting mages? Should you really be out there doing this?”

He squeezed her fingers. She only frowned harder. “I’ll be fine, mom. Go out with your friends. Find that date of yours and get a nice dinner out of him.” She rolled her eyes and huffed. “All right, never mind that date, since it clearly didn’t go well. Find a new one, someone who’ll take a single look at you and stop breathing.” She giggled despite herself. With her hands in his, she wasn’t able to demure as usual; he got the rare sight of her bright smile without her hand covering it up. “I’ll be fine. Men heard rumors and jumped at the first chance to blame someone for the deaths that have been happening recently. They latched on to Isabela and Merrill. I won’t let them take her to the Circle based on nothing more than their own racist fears.” He squeezed her hands again, then backed away. “I’ll be late. Don’t wait up for me.”

She sniffed. “Perhaps _you_ shouldn’t wait up for _me_.”

He grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

Before he could leave, she grabbed his hand and pulled him back. “Be careful,” she said. “If they find even the slightest reason to go after you...”

“I know.” He hugged her. “I’ll come back to you. Always. I promise.”

It was a promise he may one day be unable to keep. Still, it gave her comfort, and with one last hug, she sent him on his way.

* * *

Isabela had been taken to the dungeons to await further questioning. He couldn’t get to her any more than Aveline could. For the moment, the only thing he could do was what Bran and his group of ‘elite’ soldiers should have done: looked at the evidence of the murders for themselves.

The latest was in yet another Hightown home, one of the smaller ones nearer to Lowtown, hedged in on either side by similar buildings. Still, these were far more ornate than anything in Lowtown, and instead of being meshed together into one large building, these had tiny swatches of green interspersing them, with tiny backyards in well-kept shape. The building was being guarded this time, and only his known acquaintance with Aveline got him inside.

The scent of death was muted this time; the body had likely already been taken away. That would make the search much harder. He checked the first room and found nothing out of the ordinary. A couple of benches, a long, simple rug. Paintings on the walls, both of Andraste. Azzan bowed to them slightly before entering the rest of the house.

This room, unlike the first, showed obvious signs of struggle. One of the tables along the wall leaned precariously on three legs, its contents spilled over its surface like water. A large vase in one corner had been knocked down, though not broken, the scented branches that had lain within broken and scattered along the floor. A painting, this one of the Keep, lay in tatters beside the table. A small spray of blood lit the back of the painting. A much larger puddle, slightly left from the center of the room, showed where the body had once lain.

Azzan took a deep breath. The stench of blood still permeated the air, though it seemed to have aired out a bit. Whoever this man had been, he had been so important that his absence had been immediately noticed. Unlike the others to have died, this was one the ones in charge actually cared about. No wonder they’d arrested Isabela. They likely just wanted someone to blame, someone to point to instead of getting called out for not finding the perpetrator. His lips thinned. Isabela and Merrill were just convenient scapegoats.

Faith, always on the edge of his consciousness, huddled around him as well as possible from the Fade, its presence a constant, beating hum against the back of his mind. He stepped quietly through the room, finally passing it to enter the rest of the house.

The other rooms showed a remarkable lack of destruction. As if the killer had managed, this time, to keep the chaos to only one room, despite having a much more difficult opponent. His brows furrowed as he searched. Room after room, each showed absolutely no sign of struggle. Nothing. He stopped on his way back into the first room, his heart beating fast in his chest. This had all the hallmarks of someone who had upped their game. _No wonder_ the authorities wanted this closed quickly. If this man was killed by the same one as before, then the killer had become a professional.

He didn’t know what to do. Without the body, how could he begin to prove or disprove Isabela’s guilt? How could anyone?

A horrible, cynical voice inside his head noted that the body may have been removed for that exact purpose. Easier to close the case when there was no evidence to discount the verdict.

He ran a hand through his hair, getting it caught in the hairtie holding his bangs back. He fixed it with a huff, his fingers shaking slightly. There had to still be something here for him to find. Something that would exonerate Isabela and Merrill. Anything.

He looked around the room once more. Blood on the painting, on the floor. Scuff marks that showed a slight battle. Furniture in disarray. Nothing ransacked or stolen. And though the table breaking would have been loud enough to be heard outside the house, no sign of someone attempting to enter. Silent like the others? For Isabela to be blamed for both this murder and the families previous, he had to assume so. Just like the body was likely strangled and stabbed.

He couldn’t help but think of Nina and wonder if there was simply something about Kirkwall that attracted such madness.

Another fifteen minutes of searching turned up nothing but a rising panic in his chest. There wasn’t much time before Isabela would be booked, if she hadn’t been already. And there was nothing authorities liked less than admitting they’d made a mistake. Letting her go would be the worst level of error. And if she got taken to the templars? If Meredith was given jurisdiction over her? He would have to face the full front of Kirkwall’s templar order to get her out. He may simply be handing over one more prisoner to their order.

He left the building, trying to look assured despite the roiling of his stomach. The guards watched him as he walked back to the Keep. His shoulders itched. Was Merrill safe at his place? Wouldn’t that be one of the first places Aveline looked?

Almost, he hesitated. Almost, he turned back, his thoughts tearing as he worried if he should focus on protecting the one he had left to protect. Did Isabela feel for Merrill the way Merrill seemed to feel for her? The woman was so flirty, he couldn’t think she was with anyone in any permanent fashion. But if she did care for Merrill in such a way? Would she want him focusing on her when Merrill was still in danger?

It didn’t matter. Leaving Isabela to rot for something she didn’t do was wrong. Period.

The sun burnt orange as he made his way up the steps, into the shadow of the Keep’s overhang. His eyes took a few moments to adjust when he stepped inside. Otherwise, entering the Keep was a bit easier this time; it appeared the person garnering the worst of the attention had been Merrill, the clearly Dalish elf. Still, it was with trepidation that he made his way down to the barracks and knocked once more on Aveline’s door. A harried, “come in,” greeted him.

When he entered, Aveline barely bothered raising her head before turning back to the papers on her desk. “Let me guess. You want to see the body.”

“Why didn’t you tell me it wasn’t in the building?” he asked. Despite himself, he found his gaze flicking over her, taking in the dark circles under her eyes and the slump to her shoulders. He gritted his teeth, but dared call Faith to him. Her eyes flickered as his healing aura touched her, but she didn’t say anything about it. She merely sighed and raised her head.

“I didn’t say anything because there’s nothing to be said. You want to solve this problem, but you can’t. It’s not that simple.”

“I don’t expect it to be simple. That doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be done.”

Her lips thinned. They stared at each other from across the room; finally, interminably, Aveline flinched. She sighed. “The body is in the Gallows. It’s to be burned after some templar ritual.”

“Burned?” His heart flipped. “They’re already burning the evidence?”

“They already think they have the killer.” Aveline turned to face him, her lips turning down in a scowl.

“No,” he said, frowning right back at her. “They think they have an easy answer.” He hurried out of the room. Hopefully, templar rituals were just as long and convoluted as the Chantry’s.

* * *

He raced into the Gallows, receiving far more stares in the area than he was comfortable with, and hurried up to the Circle steps. His heart thundered in his ears as he hurried past two, three groups of templars, and stopped only when he reached Knight Captain Cullen. His heart beat so fast he felt it in his arms, in his throat. This man had the power to throw him in the Circle. This man could call the other templars after him, take from him his freedom. And he made no secret to his hatred of mages; Cullen wouldn’t hesitate to take him in at the slightest provocation.

The templar had watched his approach; with crossed arms, he looked down on Azzan as he came to stand before him. “Hawke,” he said, the tone of his voice as far as possible from welcoming.

He didn’t bother pretending to be there for a chat. “The body of the dead knight,” he said. Cullen’s careful stare turned downright forbidding. “I believe you’ve arrested the wrong person. I just need to see the body to confirm it.”

The Knight Captain frowned and dropped his arms. “That’s a very serious accusation.” The man looked Azzan over, noting his lack of usual attire – and the staff on his back. His lips thinned. “Do you have reason to support what you’re saying?”

“I know Isabela and Merrill,” he said. “I know how they attack. I even know Isabela’s weapons. Have you tried matching either of those daggers to the wounds?”

“A demon was involved in the killing,” Cullen said, as if he didn’t know. His tone, however, wasn’t one of condescension, but one of explanation, so Azzan let it go. “Demons can conjure any sort of weapon, including types of blades.”

He knew that. “Isabela doesn’t have a demon in her. I saw scuff marks on the ground, but I couldn’t differentiate the killer’s from the victim’s. Could you or your men?”

Cullen opened his mouth to respond, then paused. He closed his mouth and thought about it. “You mean the killer’s footprints looked like a man’s.” He rubbed the side of his jaw. “But it’s not enough to clear this woman’s name. Or her friend.”

“But it’s enough for reasonable doubt,” he said, pressing his advantage. “You’re a templar. Surely you have a way to check if someone has magic or is possessed? Has she shown any sign of either?”

“And her friend?” Cullen was quick to say. “Would you say the same of her?”

Azzan scowled. “Just because someone’s Dalish doesn’t mean they’re a mage. Merrill and Isabela are friends of mine, and you know very well I’ve been helping Aveline with these cases. Why would them talking about this case be surprising? Why would them talking about demons make them the killers? What actual evidence do you have of their crimes?”

Cullen frowned. “Your friend attacked Addison the night he was killed.”

“According to Merrill, he touched her inappropriately. Isabela fought him off.”

Cullen gave him an affronted look. “Addison would never–”

“We only have your word against hers. Your idea of his reputation against your idea of _Isabela’s_ reputation.” Azzan fought not to clench his fingers or tense his muscles. He fought to keep his voice steady. “Is that enough to stake a life on?”

For several long, tense moments, it seemed as if Cullen was trying to see through him, into his very soul. He knew what he looked like. Yes, he had muscles from years of tilling the fields of Lothering, and in the past four, from battles beyond anything he’d thought to face. But he was still fairly lithe, his clothing more suited to his home in Hightown, his staff, because of this, a too-distinct difference that had to make his weapon of choice plain. His heart was beating so fast it pulsed at his throat, even as he kept his gaze steady on the templar’s before him. Sunset curled to night around them. Cullen nodded. “All right. We’ll take one last look.”

Only a single instant of triumph bloomed before panic lanced his chest. Knight Captain Cullen was turning toward the Circle.

Trap! Trap! The screeching twittering of his mind flew in circles, nipping at itself. He held his breath to keep from showing his fear and followed the Knight Captain down the side alley and into the side hall of the Circle.

The walls shone bright with firelight from the sconces, each burning with a magical blaze. Azzan couldn’t help but think of the tale of the first mages of the Chantry, how they had been left to do nothing more than light the fires of the Chantries. They’d inevitably balked at the degrading, pithy magics they’d been allowed and had allowed the lights in the Chantries to go dark. He wondered how the mages here felt about these paltry parlor tricks. He wondered if they were allowed to complain.

He eyed Cullen. No. He didn’t wonder at all.

The halls had doors on either side, each as stone white as the walls they passed. With a start, he realized he’d seen these very walls before. In the Fade, when chasing after Feynriel. Had Feynriel known of these walls, or had the demon simply chosen this backdrop to further scare them into submission? The thought of this place being used to scare him actually calmed his nerves somewhat. This could also be a scare tactic. If it was, it wasn’t going to work on him. He’d been raised to deal with creatures hunting his fear, his concerns, his self-effacement. In comparison, a human doing the same meant little.

If all else failed, he could paralyze the Knight Captain and his allies and run away.

When they finally turned into a room, however, it was to find nothing more than two men on either side of the door and a small altar with a body covered atop it. The sole décor was a large statue of Andraste praying on the far wall. Cullen made a single motion with his hand, and the two men beside the door left. Both gave Azzan looks as they passed, but neither so much as spoke a word to him.

Cullen nearly ignored him, his gaze on the body in the middle of the room. He bowed to the statue of Andraste, placed his fingers upon his brow in a short prayer, and spoke. “Addison was a veteran who survived the Battle of Ostagar. He trained many of our recruits over the past few years. There isn’t a man here who doesn’t know his name.” Cullen looked up. “Your accusation would have earned you a punch, at the very least, from anyone else.”

Azzan lifted his chin. “You may wish to rethink your training if your reaction to something you don’t like is violence.”

Cullen’s gaze hardened for a moment. “Watch yourself. You may be a resident of Hightown now, but that means little to us.”

It was in him to continue, to tell the man exactly what he thought about a bunch of people being trained to hold power over others and thinking it appropriate to deal violence upon those they disagreed with. But the very fact that such was how they’d been taught showed that he, alone, the very kind of person whose existence they disagreed with, would not leave such an encounter safely. He kept his silence, though this time he wasn’t able to help tensing.

It took several more moments before the knight captain was willing to look away from him. He pulled down the sheet and stared. The very level of assessment in his gaze told Azzan the man hadn’t studied the man’s body before. How wonderful. One of the leaders of the templars hadn’t yet looked at the body, even though they were about to burn it and arrest someone for murder.

Cullen’s brows pulled down. He frowned over the corpse for a few moments. Something in his stance changed from near-hostility, and Azzan took the chance to come over and stare down over the body, as well.

Addison, though older, was still in good shape. While his face showed the wear and tear of age – wrinkles, frown lines, the kind of mustache-beard ensemble grown only over years of painstaking effort – the body beneath the tunic he wore was nearly bursting through the cotton stitching. The shirt’s front was in tatters, blood caked on the tunic like dye. Purplish-black marks ringed the neck. Very slowly, as if it were perfectly natural, Azzan reached out and held his fingers above the neck. His hand, though long-fingered and slim, clearly matched the outline of the bruises better than a woman’s. He looked up to Cullen and cocked a single brow.

Cullen dropped the sheet back down. There was something like steel in those eyes. “You do realize this doesn’t discount _you_ as a suspect.”

“If the only criteria is male,” Azzan said, “there are plenty within your own division to look toward.”

Cullen scowled. His gaze flickered once more to Azzan’s staff. Despite himself, Azzan felt fear rushing over him again. He tamped it back down. “Your friend isn’t responsible for this. I’ll see to it she’s released and the charges against her dropped.”

Azzan nodded. That was the important thing. Everything else could be dealt with in its time.

He made to leave, only to be stopped by the knight captain’s curt, “if you cause any trouble, Hawke, the next time you see this place, you won’t be walking back out.”

He looked at the man. The templars of Kirkwall were the radical kind, the ones who wanted to hurt mages for doing nothing more than existing. Their hate made many mages believe there was no point in _not_ becoming blood mages. Couldn’t these people see that, when a person was treated like something, they _became_ that something?

A part of him wanted to tell this man. This man who hated mages but was fairer than many of his knights. Perhaps there was a chance of shaking loose whatever loathing had nested itself in his heart. But Azzan was alone, and it wasn’t safe, and it wasn’t his place to save someone who didn’t want it. So he merely inclined his head, bowed shortly to the statue of Andraste, and left.

* * *

“Isabela!”

Merrill raced across the main hall and into Isabela’s arms. The sea captain wrapped Merrill up and laughed, swinging the elf lightly before releasing her. Azzan stood a few feet away, a grin bursting on his lips. “Were you worried about me?” she asked, and yes, that was definitely a flirting tease on her tongue. Merrill, absolutely oblivious, nodded wide-eyed up at her.

Azzan left the two to their reunion and moved to his mother, who stood behind them both, her gaze fixed on him. She clearly hadn’t gone anywhere during his run, despite how she’d acted. The moment he came within reach, she cupped his cheeks. “Are you all right?”

He smiled and placed his hands over hers. “I’m fine. The body showed clear evidence that it was a man who killed the templar, not a woman.” Best not to mention how he’d garnered the attention of a high-ranking templar. Best not to mention how he’d entered the Circle, how he’d nearly picked a fight with the knight captain, or how concerned he was over the open hostility shown by the templars to anyone even slightly suspicious. Best to not mention how Aveline hadn’t seemed to try very hard to get Isabela out, or what that might mean for him if he was in her position.

His mother must have seen something, however, because she just caressed his stubbled cheek and frowned.

“Let’s go to the Hanged Man!” Isabela shouted, cutting through the moment. “I feel like celebrating!”

He closed his eyes. “Isn’t that what started all this?” he asked, even though he knew it was useless. The day Isabela didn’t drink was the day Kirkwall sank into the ocean.

Merrill tutted something, then, after a short, quiet murmur from Isabela, giggled. He bent down and kissed his mother’s cheek. “I’d better go and make sure she doesn’t get herself thrown right back in,” he said. Leandra rolled her eyes.

“Then I’m going to bed. Remember to place those clothes in the hamper when you return.”

Such a mother. He grinned as she turned away. “Of course.”

“Hurry up! Every second we waste is a second I’m not hammered!” Isabela wrapped an arm around him, bumping her breasts against his arm as she steered him to the door. Merrill, held close on her other side, looked between the two of them. She bit her lip, but said nothing.

That would apparently be something else he would have to bring up.

“Ah! Sir. One moment.”

He turned back from the door to Isabela’s loud protests. Bodahn hurried up to him, a plain envelope in his hand. “I asked this time,” he said, even as he handed it over. “Another young chap from Darktown. Said a tall man in a hood gave it to him.” Bodahn waited, clearly wishing to see the contents of the envelope. Isabela peered over his shoulder, obviously of the same opinion. Azzan tensed as he opened it.

_My apologies. Next time, I’ll make sure they know it was me._

A chill raced down his spine. He crumpled the paper in his hand. Isabela’s nails dug through his shirt into his skin.

He officially had a problem.

* * *

Somewhere around midnight, it had begun to rain. Isabela was busy sleeping off the six drinks she’d managed before he and Merrill had herded her to her room at the tavern. The rain, soft and steady enough to puddle against the stucco walls of Lowtown and hide in the crevices of the streets, had soaked both him and Merrill long before they’d reached the Alienage. She’d turned to him with a grin, thanked him for his work saving Isabela, and stepped inside. He’d watched her close the door, wondering if he should call out her feelings for Isabela the way she had with him. He decided against it. It hadn’t been something he’d wished to discuss – even more so now.

He’d traced a long path back to Hightown, attacked only once, the thugs easily frozen in place and left behind. He wasn’t aware of just how far he’d traveled until he’d looked up and found himself standing outside Fenris’ mansion.

He felt calm. It seemed inevitable that he end up here.

He knocked on the door.

For a very, very long time, no one answered, and he wondered if it wouldn’t have been better if he’d written a letter, after all. He wouldn’t be soaked to the bone, his thin silk clothes sticking to his skin, so cold he shivered beneath the dark sky. He wouldn’t be facing turning around and slinking back home without answers.

The door opened.

He stared at Fenris as the elf stopped short at the sight of him. Fenris’ hair stuck up at odd angles, his green eyes bloodshot. He blinked several times, as if Azzan might be some sort of apparition. He opened his mouth to speak.

“I don’t want to never see you again,” Azzan said, speaking quickly, miserably, before Fenris could talk. Rain dripped from his bangs, slid down his cheeks. “I don’t want this to be the end.”

Fenris hitched in a breath. Silently, he shifted to the side. Azzan stepped in. Water dripped loudly to the tiled floor as he entered.

Fenris closed the door behind them.


End file.
